Chapter LIV: Mr. Wotherspoon’s Déjeuner à La Fourchette

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IVY BANK Tower (formerly caled Cow gate Hill), the seat of Jeames
Wotherspoon Esquire, stands on a gentle eminence about a stone’s
throw from the Horseheath and Hinton turnpike road, and looks
from the luxuriance of its ivy, like a great Jack-in-the-green.
Ivy is a troublesome thing, for it will either not grow at all or
it grows far too fast, and Wotherspoon’s had fairly overrun the
little angular red brick, red tiled mansion, and helped it to its
new name of Ivy Bank Tower. If the ivy flourished, however, it
was the only thing about the place that did; for Wotherspoon was
no farmer, and the 75A, 3R. 18P., of which the estate consisted,
was a very uninviting looking property. Indeed Wotherspoon was an
illustration of the truth of Sydney Smith’s observation that
there are three things which every man thinks he can do, namely,
drive a gig, edit a newspaper, and farm a small property, and
Spoon bought Cowgate Hill thinking it would “go of itself,” as
they say of a horse, and that in addition to the rent he would
get the farmer’s profit as well, which he was told ought to be
equal to the rent. Though he had the Farmers’ Almanack, he did
not attend much to its instructions, for if Mrs. Wotherspoon
wanted the Fe-a-ton, as she called it, to gad about the country
in, John Strong, the plough-boy footman “loused” his team, and
arraying himself in a chocolate-coloured coat, with a red striped
vest and black velveteens, left the other horse standing idle for
the day. So Spoon sometimes caught the season and sometimes he
lost it; and the neighbours used to hope that he hadn’t to live
by his land. If he caught the season he called it good
management; if he didn’t he laid the blame upon the weather, just
as a gardener takes the credit for all the good crops of fruit,
and attributes the failures to the seasons. Still Spoon was not
at all sensible of his deficiencies, and subscribed a couple of
guineas a year to the Harrowford Agricultural Society, in return
for which he always had the toast of the healths of the tenant
farmers assigned to him, which he handled in a very magnificent
and condescending way, acknowledging the obligations the
landowners were under to them, and hoping the happy union would
long subsist to their mutual advantage; indeed, if he could only
have got the words out of his mouth as fast as he got the drink
into it, there is no saying but he might some day have filled the
presidential chair. Now, however, a greater honour even than that
awaited him, namely, the honour of entertaining the great Major
Yammerton to breakfast. To this end John Strong was first set to
clean the very dirty windows, then to trim the ivy and polish the
brass knocker at the door, next to dig the border, in which grew
the famous yellow rose, and finally to hoe and rake the
carriage-drive up to the house; while Mrs. Wotherspoon, aided by
Sally Brown, her maid-of-all-work, looked out the best blue and
gold china, examined the linen, selected a tongue, guillotined
the poultry, bespoke the eggs, and arranged the general programme
of the entertainment.

The Major thought himself very sly, and that he was doing the
thing very cleverly by nibbling and playing with his breakfast on
the appointed morning, instead of eating voraciously as usual;
but ladies often know a good deal more than they pretend to do,
and Mrs. Yammerton had seen a card from Mrs. Wotherspoon to their
neighbour, Mrs. Broadfurrow, of Blossomfield Farm, inviting
Broadfurrow and her to a “_déjeuner à la fourchette_” to meet
Major Yammerton and see the hounds. However, Mrs. Yammerton kept
the fact to herself, thinking she would see how her Major would
manoeuvre the matter, and avoid a general acquaintance with the
Wotherspoons. So she merely kept putting his usual viands before
him, to try to tempt him into indulgence; but the Major, knowing
the arduous part he would have to perform at the Tower, kept
rejecting all her insidious overtures for eating, pretending he
was not altogether right. “Almond pudding hadn’t agreed with
him,” he thought. “Never did—should have known better than take
it,” and so on.

Our dawdling hero rather discontented his host, for instead of
applying himself sedulously to his breakfast, he did nothing but
chatter and talk to the young ladies, as if there was no such
important performance before them as a hare to pursue, or the
unrivalled harriers to display. He took cup after cup, as though
he had lost his reckoning, and also the little word “no” from his
vocabulary. At length the Major got him raised from the table, by
telling him they had two miles farther to go than they really
had, and making for the stable, they found Solomon and the
footman whipper-in ready to turn out with the hounds. Up went our
sportsmen on to their horses, and forth came the hounds wriggling
and frolicking with joy. The cavalcade being thus formed, they
proceeded across the fields, at the back of the house, and were
presently passing up the Hollington Lane. The gift grey was the
first object of interest as soon as they got well under way, and
the Major examined him attentively, with every desire to find
fault.

“Neatish horse,” at length observed he, half to himself, half to
our friend; “neatish horse—lightish of bone below the knee,
p’raps, but still by no means a bad shaped ‘un.”

Still though the Major could’nt hit off the fault, he was pretty
sure there was a screw loose somewhere, to discover which he now
got Billy to trot the horse, aud cauter him, and gallop him,
successively.

“Humph!” grunted he, as he returned after a brush over the rough
ground of Farthingfield Moor; “he has the use of his legs—gets
well away; easy horse under you, I dessay?” asked he.

Billy said he was, for he could pull him about anywhere; saying
which he put him boldly at a water furrow, and landed handsomely
on the far side.

“Humph!” grunted the Major again, muttering to himself, “May be
all right—but if he is, it’s devilish unlike the Baronet, giving
him. Wish he would take that confounded moon-eyed brute of mine
and give me my forty puns back.”

“And he gave him ye, did he?” asked the Major, with a
scrutinising stare at our friend.

“Why—yarse—no—yarse—not exactly,” replied Billy, hesitating. “The
fact is, he offered to give me him, and I didn’t like taking him,
and so, after a good deal to do, he said I might give him fifty
pounds for him, and pay him when it suited me.”

“I twig,” replied the Major, adding, “then you have to pay fifty
pounds for him, eh?”

“Or return him,” replied Billy, “or return him. He made me
promise if over I wanted to part with him, I would give him the
refusal of him again.”

“Humph!” grunted the Major, looking the horse over attentively.
“Fifty puns,” muttered he to himself,—“must be worth that if he’s
sound, and only eight off. Wouldn’t mind giving fifty for him
myself,” thought he; “must be something wrong about him—certain
of that—or Sir Moses wouldn’t have parted with him;” with which
firm conviction, and the full determination to find out the
horse’s weak point, the Major trotted along the Bodenham Road,
through the little hamlet of Maywood, thence across Faulder the
cattle jobber’s farm, into the Heath-field Road at Gilden Bridge.
A quarter of a mile further, and Mr. Wotherspoon’s residence was
full in sight.

The “Tower” never, perhaps, showed to greater advantage than it
did on this morning, for a bright winter’s sun lit up the
luxuriant ivy on its angular, gable-ended walls, nestling myriads
of sparrows that flew out in flocks at the approach of each
visitor.

“What place is this?” asked our hero, as, at a jerk of the
Major’s head, Solomon turned off the road through the now
propped-open gate of the approach to the mansion.

“Oh, this is where we meet,” replied the Major; “this is Mr.
Wotherspoon’s, the gentleman you remember out with us the day we
had the famous run when we lost the hare at Mossheugh Law—the
farm by the moor, you know, where the pretty woman was
churning—you remember, eh?”

“O, ah!” repeated Billy: “but I thought they called his place a
Tower,—Ivy something Tower,” thinking this was more like two
great sentry boxes placed at right angles, and covered with ivy
than anything else.

“Well, yes; he calls this a Tower,” replied the Major, seeing by
Billy’s face that his friend had not risen in his estimation by
the view of his mansion. “Capital feller Spoon, though,”
continued he, “must go in and pay our respects to him and his
lady.” So saying, he turned off the road upon the closely eaten
sward, and, calling to Solomon to stop and let the hounds have a
roll on the grass, he dismounted, and gave his horse in charge of
a fustian-clad countryman, telling him to walk him about till he
returned, and he would remember him for his trouble. Our friend
Billy did the same, and knocking the mud sparks off his boots
against the well pipe-clayed door-steps, prepared to enter the
Tower. Before inducting them, however, let us prepare the inmates
for their reception.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Wotherspoon had risen sufficiently early to
enable them to put the finishing stroke to their respective
arrangements, and then to apparel themselves for the occasion.
They were gorgeously attired, vieing with the rainbow in the
colour of their clothes. Old Spoon, indeed, seemed as if he had
put all the finery on he could raise, and his best brown
cauliflower wig shone resplendent with Macassar oil. He had on a
light brown coat with a rolling velvet collar, velvet facings and
cuffs, with a magnificent green, blue, and yellow striped tartan
velvet vest, enriched with red cornelian buttons, and crossed
diagonally with a massive Brazilian gold chain, and the broad
ribbon of his gold double-eye-glasses. He sported a light blue
satin cravat, an elaborately worked ruby-studded shirt front,
over a pink flannel vest, with stiff wrist-bands well turned up,
showing the magnificence of his imitation India garnet buttons.
On his clumsy fingers he wore a profusion of rings—a brilliant
cluster, a gold and opal, a brilliant and sapphire, an emerald
half-hoop ring, a massive mourning, and a signet ring,—six in
all,—genuine or glass as the case might be, equally distributed
between the dirty-nailed fingers of each hand. His legs were
again encased in the treacherous white cords and woe-begone
top-boots that were best under the breakfast table. He had drawn
the thin cords on very carefully, hoping they would have the
goodness to hang together for the rest of the day.

Mrs. Wotherspoon was bedizened with jewellery and machinery lace.
She wore a rich violet-coloured velvet dress, with a beautiful
machinery lace chemisette, fastened down the front with large
Cairngorum buttons, the whole connected with a diminutive
Venetian chain, which contrasted with the massive mosaic one that
rolled and rattled upon her plump shoulders. A splendid imitation
emerald and brilliant brooch adorned her bust, while her
well-rounded arms were encircled with a mosaic gold, garnet and
turquoise bracelet, an imitation rose diamond one, intermixed
with pearl, a serpent armlet with blood-stone eyes, a heavy jet
one, and an equally massive mosaic gold one with a heart’s ease
padlock. Though in the full development of womanhood, she yet
distended her figure with crinoline, to the great contraction of
her room.

The two had scarcely entered the little parlour, some twelve feet
square, and Spoon got out his beloved Morning Post, ere Mr. and
Mrs. Broadfurrow were seen wending their way up the road, at the
plodding diligent sort of pace an agricultural horse goes when
put into harness; and forthwith the Wotherspoons dismissed the
last anxieties of preparation, and lapsed into the easy,
unconcerned host and hostess. When John Strong threw open the
door, and announced Mr. and Mrs. Broadfurrow, they were
discovered standing over the fire, as if _d’ejeuner à la
fourchette_ giving was a matter of every day’s occurrence with
them. Then, at the summons, they turned and came forward in the
full glow of cordiality, and welcomed their guests with all the
fervour of sincerity; and when Mrs. Wotherspoon mounted the
weather for a trot with Mrs. Broadfurrow, old Spoon out with his
engine-turned gold snuff-box, and offered Broadfurrow a pinch ere
he threw his conversation into the columns of his paper. The
offer being accepted, Wotherspoon replenished his own nose, and
then felt ready for anything. He was in high feather. He sunk his
favourite topic, the doings of the House of Lords, and expatiated
upon the Princess Royal’s then approaching marriage. Oh, dear, he
was so glad. He was so glad of it—glad of it on every
account—glad of it on the Princess’s account—glad of it on her
most gracious Majesty’s account. Bless her noble heart! it almost
made him feel like an old man when he remembered the Prince
Consort leading her to the hymeneal altar herself. Well, well,
life was life, and he had seen as much of it as most men; and
just as he was going to indulge in some of his high-flown
reminiscences, the crack of a hunting whip sounded through the
house, and farmer Nettlefold’s fat figure, attired in the
orthodox green coat and white cords of the Major Yammerton’s hunt
was seen piled on a substantial brown cob, making his way to the
stables at the back of the Tower. Mr. Nettlefold, who profanely
entered by the back door, was then presently announced, and the
same greetings having been enacted towards him, Wotherspoon made
a bold effort to get back to the marriage, beginning with “As I
was observing,” when farmer Rintoul came trotting up on his white
horse, and holloaed out to know if he could get him put up.

“Oh, certainly,” replied Wotherspoon, throwing up the window,
when a sudden gust of wind nearly blew off his wig, and sadly
disconcerted the ladies by making the chimney smoke.

Just at this moment our friend appeared in sight, and all eyes
were then directed to the now gamboling tongue-throwing hounds,
as they spread frisking over the green.

“What beauties!” exclaimed Mrs. Wotherspoon, pretending to admire
them, though in reality she was examining the Point de Paris lace
on Mrs. Broadfurrow’s mantle—wondering what it would be a yard,
thinking it was very extravagant for a person like her to have it
so broad. Old Spoon, meanwhile, bustled away to the door, to be
ready to greet the great men as they entered.

“Major Yammerton and Mr. Jingle!” announced John Strong, throwing
it open, and the old dandy bent nearly double with his bow.

“How are ye, Wotherspoon?” demanded our affable master, shaking
him heartily by the hand, with a hail-fellow-well-met air of
cordiality. “Mr. Pringle you know,” continued he, drawing our
friend forward with his left hand, while he advanced with his
right to greet the radiant Mrs. Wotherspoon.

The Major then went the round of the party, whole handing Mrs.
Broadfurrow, three fingering her husband, presenting two to old
Rintonl, and nodding to Nettlefold.

“Well, here’s a beautiful morning,” observed he, now
Colossus-of-Rhodesing with his clumsily built legs—“most
remarkable season this I ever remember during the five-and-thirty
years that I have kept haryers—more like summer than winter, only
the trees are as bare of leaves as boot-trees, _haw, haw, haw_.”

“_He, he, he_,” chuckled old Wotherspoon, “v-a-a-ry good, Major,
v-a-a-ry good,” drawled he, taking a plentiful replenishment of
snuff as he spoke.

Breakfast was then announced, and the Major making up to the
inflated Mrs. Wotherspoon tendered his arm, and with much
difficulty piloted her past the table into the little duplicate
parlour across the passage, followed by Wotherspoon with Mrs.
Broadfurrow and the rest of the party.

And now the fruits of combined science appeared in the elegant
arrangement of the breakfast-table, the highly polished plate
vieing with the snowy whiteness of the cloth, and the pyramidical
napkins encircling around. Then there was the show pattern tea
and coffee services, chased in wreaths and scrolls, presented to
Mr. Wotherspoon by the Duke of Thunderdownshire on his marriage;
the Louis Quatorze kettle presented to Mrs. Wotherspoon by the
Duchess, with the vine-leaf-patterned cake-basket, the
Sutherland-patterned toast-rack, and the tulip-patterned
egg-stand, the gifts and testimonials of other parties.

Nor was the entertainment devoted to mere show, for piles of
cakes and bread of every shape and make were scattered profusely
about, while a couple of covered dishes on the well polished
little sideboard denoted that the fourchette of the card was not
a mere matter of form. Best of all, a group of flat vine-leaf
encircling Champagne glasses denoted that the repast was to be
enlivened with the exhilarating beverage.

The party having at length settled into seats, Major Yammerton on
Mrs. Wotherspoon’s right, Mr. Pringle on her left, Mrs.
Broadfurrow on Spoon’s right, her husband on his left, with
Rintoul and Nettlefold filling in the interstices, breakfast
began in right earnest, and Mrs. Wotherspoon having declined the
Major’s offer of assisting with the coffee, now had her hands so
full distributing the beverages as to allow him to apply himself
sedulously to his food. This he did most determinedly, visiting
first one detachment of cakes, then another, and helping himself
liberally to both hashed woodcocks and kidneys from under the
covers. His quick eye having detected the Champagne glasses, and
knowing Wotherspoon’s reputed connoisseurship in wines, he
declined Mrs. Wotherspoon’s tea, reserving himself for what was
to follow. In truth, Spoon was a good judge of wine, so much so
that he acted as a sort of decoy duck to a London house, who sent
him very different samples to the wine they supplied to the
customers with whom he picked up. He had had a great deal of
experience in wines, never, in the course of a longish life
having missed the chance of a glass, good, bad, or indifferent.
We have seen many men set up for judges without a tithe of
Wotherspoon’s experience. Look at a Club for instance. We see the
footman of yesterday transformed into the butler of to-day,
giving his opinion to some newly joined member on the next, with
all the authority of a professor—talking of vintages, and
flavours, and roughs and smooths, and sweets, and drys, as if he
had been drinking wine all his life. Wotherspoon’s prices were
rather beyond the Major’s mark, but still he had no objection to
try his wine, and talk as if he would like to have some of the
same sort. So having done ample justice to the eatables he turned
himself back in his chair and proceeded to criticise Mrs.
Wotherspoon’s now slightly flushed face, and wonder how such a
pretty woman could marry such a snuffy old cock. While this
deliberate scrutiny was going on, the last of the tea-drinkers
died out, and at a pull of the bell, John Strong came in, and
after removing as many cups and saucers as he could clutch, he
next proceeded to decorate the table with Champagne glasses amid
the stares and breath-drawings of the company.

While this interesting operation was proceeding, the old dandy
host produced his snuff-box, and replenishing his nose passed it
on to Broadfurrow to send up the table, while he threw himself
back in his chair and made a mental wager that Strong would make
a mistake between the Champagne and the Sillery. The glasses
being duly distributed, and the Major’s eye at length caught, our
host after a prefatory throat-clearing hem thus proceeded to
address him, individually, for the good of the company generally.

“Major Yammerton,” said he, “I will take the liberty of
recommending a glass of Sillery to you.—The sparkling, I believe,
is very good, but the still is what I particularly pride myself
upon and recommend to my friends.”

“Strong!” continued he, addressing the clown, “the Sillery to
Major Yammerton,” looking at Strong as much as to say, “you know
it’s the bottle with the red cord round the neck.”

The Major, however, like many of us, was not sufficiently versed
in the delicacies of Champagne drinking to prefer the Sillery,
and to his host’s dismay called for the sparkling-stuff that
Wotherspoon considered was only fit for girls at a boarding
school. The rest of the party, however, were of the Major’s
opinion, and all glasses were eagerly held for the sparkling
fluid, while the Sillery remained untouched to the master.

It is but justice to Wotherspoon to add, that he showed himself
deserving of the opportunity, for he immediately commenced taking
two glasses to his guest’s one.

That one having been duly sipped and quaffed and applauded, and a
becoming interval having elapsed between, Mr. Wotherspoon next
rose from his chair, and looking especially wise, observed, up
the table “that there was a toast he wished—he had—he had—he
wished to propose, which he felt certain under any—any (pause)
circumstances, would be (pause again) accepted—he meant received
with approbation (applause), not only with approbation, but
enthusiasm,” continued he, hitting off the word he at first
intended to use, amid renewed applause, causing a slight “this is
my health,” droop of the head from the Major—“But when,”
continued the speaker, drawing largely on his snuff-box for
inspiration, “But when in addition to the natural and intrinsic
(pause) merit of the (hem) illustrious individual” (“Coming it
strong,” thought the Major, who had never been called illustrious
before,) “there is another and a stronger reason,” continued
Wotherspoon, looking as if he wished he was in his seat again—“a
reason that comes ‘ome to the ‘earts and symphonies of us all
(applause). (“Ah, that’s the hounds,” thought the Major, “only I
‘spose he means sympathies.”) “I feel (pause) assured,” continued
Mr. Wotherspoon, “that the toast will be received with the
enthusiasm and popularity that ever attends the (pause) mention
of intrinsic merit, however (pause) ‘umbly and inadequately the
(pause) toast may be (pause) proposed,” (great applause, with
cries of no, no,) during which the orator again appealed to his
snuff-box. He knew he had a good deal more to say, but he felt he
couldn’t get it out. If he had only kept his seat he thought he
might have managed it. “I therefore,” said he, helping Mrs.
Broadfurrow to the sparkling, and passing the bottle to her
husband while he again appealed to the Sillery, “beg to propose,
with great sincerity, the ‘ealth of Her most gracious Majesty The
Queen! The Queen! God bless her!” exclaimed Wotherspoon, holding
up a brimming bumper ere he sunk in his chair to enjoy it.

“With all my heart!” gasped the disgusted Major, writhing with
vexation—observing to Mrs. Wotherspoon as he helped her, and then
took severe toll of the passing bottle himself, “by Jove, your
husband ought to be in Parliament—never heard a man acquit
himself better”—the Major following the now receding bottle with
his eye, whose fast diminishing contents left little hopes of a
compliment for himself out of its contents. He therefore felt his
chance was out, and that he had been unduly sacrificed to
Royalty. Not so, however, for Mr. Wotherspoon, after again
charging his nose with snuff, and passing his box round the table
while he collected his scattered faculties for the charge, now
drew the bell-cord again, and tapping with his knife against the
empty bottle as “Strong” entered, exclaimed, “Champagne!” with
the air of a man accustomed to have all the wants of life
supplied by anticipation. There’s nobody gets half so well waited
upon as an old servant.

This order being complied with, and having again got up the steam
of his eloquence, Mr. Wotherspoon arose, and, looking as wise as
before, observed, “That there was another toast he had to
propose, which he felt (pause) sure would (pause) would be most
agreeable and acceptable to the meeting,—he meant to say the
party, the present party (applause)—under any circumstances
(sniff, snuff, sneeze); he was sure it would be most (snuff)
acceptable, for the great and distinguished (pause), he had
almost said illustrious (sniff), gentleman (pause), was—was
estimable”—

“This is me, at all events,” thought the Major, again slightly
drooping his too bashful head, as though the shower-bath of
compliment was likely to be too heavy for him.

“——was estimable (pause) and glorious in every relation of life
(applause), and keeps a pack of hounds second to none in the
kingdom (great applause, during which the drooping head descended
an inch or two lower). I need not after that (snuff) expression
of your (sniff) feelings (pause), undulate on the advantage such
a character is of to the country, or in promoting (pause)
cheerful hospitality in all its (pause) branches, and drawing
society into sociable communications; therefore I think I shall
(pause) offer a toast most, most heartily acceptable (sniff) to
all your (snuff) feelings, when I propose, in a bumper toast, the
health of our most—most distinguished and—and hospitable
host—guest, I mean—Major Yammerton, and his harriers!” saying
which, the old orator filled himself a bumper of Sillery, and
sent the sparkling beverage foaming and creaming on its tour. He
then presently led the charge with a loud, “Major! your very good
health!”

“Major, your very good health!”

“Your very good health, Major!”

“Major, your very good health!” then followed up as quickly as
the glasses could be replenished, and the last explosion having
taken place, the little Major arose, and looked around him like a
Bantam cock going to crow. He was a man who could make what he
would call an off-hand speech, provided he was allowed to begin
with a particular word, and that word was “for.” Accordingly, he
now began with,—

“Ladies and gentlemen, _For_ the very distinguished honour you
have thus most unexpectedly done me, I beg to return you my most
grateful and cordial thanks. (Applause.) I beg to assure you,
that the ‘steem and approbation of my perhaps too partial
friends, is to me the most gratifying of compliments; and if
during the five-and-thirty years I have kept haryers, I have
contributed in any way to the ‘armony and good fellowship of this
neighbourhood, it is indeed to me a source of unfeigned pleasure.
(Applause.) I ‘ope I may long be spared to continue to do so.
(Renewed applause.) Being upon my legs, ladies and gentlemen,”
continued he, “and as I see there is still some of this most
excellent and exhilarating beverage in the bottle (the Major
holding up a half-emptied one as he spoke), permit me to conclude
by proposing as a toast the ‘ealth of our inestimable ‘ost and
‘ostess—a truly exemplary couple, who only require to be known to
be respected and esteemed as they ought to be. (Applause.) I have
great pleasure in proposing the ‘ealth of Mr. and Mrs.
Wotherspoon! (Applause.) Mrs. Wotherspoon,” continued he, bowing
very low to his fair hostess, and looking, as he thought, most
insinuating, “your _very_ good ‘ealth! Wotherspoon!” continued
he, standing erect, and elevating his voice, “Your very good
‘ealth!” saying which he quaffed off his wine, and resumed his
seat as the drinking of the toast became general.

Meanwhile old Wotherspoon had taken a back hand at the Sillery,
and again arose, glass in hand, to dribble out his thanks for the
honour the Major and company had done Mrs. Wotherspoon and
himself, which being the shortest speech he had made, was
received with the greatest applause.

All parties had now about arrived at that comfortable state when
the inward monitor indicates enough, and the active-minded man
turns to the consideration of the “next article, mem,”—as the
teasing shop-keepers say, The Major’s “next article,” we need
hardly say, was his haryers, which were still promenading in
front of the ivy-mantled tower, before an admiring group of
pedestrians and a few sorrily mounted horsemen,—old Duffield,
Dick Trail, and one or two others,—who would seem rather to have
come to offer up their cattle for the boiler, than in expectation
of their being able to carry them across country with the hounds.
These are the sort of people who stamp the farmers’ hedges down,
and make hare hunting unpopular.

“Well, sir, what say you to turning out?” now asked our Master,
as Wotherspoon still kept working away at the Sillery, and
maundering on to Mr. Broadfurrow about the Morning Post and high
life.

“Well, sir, what you think proper,” replied Spoon, taking a heavy
pinch of snuff, and looking at the empty bottles on the table.

“The hare, you say, is close at hand,” observed our master of
hounds.

“Close at hand, close at hand—at the corner of my field, in
fact,” assented Wotherspoon, as if there was no occasion to be in
a hurry.

“Then let’s be at her!” exclaimed the Major rising with
wine-inspired confidence, and feeling that it would require a
very big fence to stop him with the hounds in full cry.

“Well, but we are going to see you, ain’t we?” asked Mrs.
Wotherspoon.

“By all means,” replied our Master; adding, “but hadn’t you
better get your bonnet on?”

“Certainly,” rejoined Mrs. Wotherspoon, looking significantly at
Mrs. Broadfurrow; whereupon the latter rose, and with much
squeezing, and pardoning, and thank-you-ing, the two succeeded in
effecting a retreat. The gentlemen then began kicking their legs
about, feeling as though they would not want any dinner that day.